


Lost

by yesmsmoran (elliedew)



Series: Scattershots [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Destiel - Freeform, M/M, Spoilers for Sweet Dreams and Scattershot, but only if you know where to look, or at least the closest to actual fluff I will ever write, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 02:10:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elliedew/pseuds/yesmsmoran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm so lost for you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jessi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jessi/gifts).



> Thanks for all the help Jessi. You're AWESOME!

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Humanity is often the strangest  thing. Sensation, state of mind and often, Castiel thinks, it’s a place. Not a geographical place or a point one can identify on a map because it can be anywhere, everywhere and nowhere all at once.

In the past few months he’s come to associate that word with another, one he thinks nobody else would understand the connection between but himself and maybe Dean, if Dean were being honest with himself— which he rarely is concerning such things unless he has no other option. But, the reasoning is sound, the logic, however flawed, is undeniable. Humanity has become synonymous to Castiel with the word ‘Home’. Again, a sensation, state of mind and place that can only be found between himself and Dean. That glowing vaporous, all-encompassing place where he and Dean meet and mesh into something stronger than either of them combined could ever hope to be; A breath thin, fragile place that can never be broken or unmade or taken from them even if they are hundreds of miles apart. It remains, just at arm’s reach across mattresses, car seats and sticky diner tabletops. It lingers in phantom scents caught on the air, on thoughtsIMAGESSENSATIONS, passed between them like a lover’s caress.

Castiel finds himself often silent and still in awe of its presence, of its very existence. Knowing what IT is, what it means and what it has cost makes it all the more precious to him. People may pass him on the sidewalk, sitting on a bench with a book in his lap, open and pages fluttering in the chilled wind, oblivious to the words that seem to have blown clean off the pages like fairy dust; Empty and eager to be filled, wanting and excited of the potentiality of what may occur.

Life is a blank slate waiting to be taken up and scribbled on. Abused and neglected and finally cherished and shared and revered in all its crackedchippedtornstained glory. Raised above heads and claimed as their own.

Castiel finds himself watching, excitement building in his chest wondering what may lay ahead. Sadness, fear, joy, relief? Perhaps he is ‘broken’ as the Others have said, perhaps he is like Metatron in this sense, the hunger for the story burns in his veins, but unlike his predecessor, Castiel doesn’t want to meddle, doesn’t want to edit what he’s been given. He wants to immerse himself in the tale, all its twisting and turning, its cracks and crevasses. He wants to experience it for himself. Take up the chance he’s been given and make the most of it because it’s such a fantastic chance. Such a long and winding road he’s been shown and even the broken bits feel like an adventure.

Sometimes Dean comes looking for him, finds him sitting under the tree on the path north of the valley and he’ll sit down on the opposite end of the bench and pick at a fray in his jeans, or hunch forward and dig a little hole in the dirt with his fingers and poke at the roots of the grass, grinning and almost gleeful in a quiet, fascinated way, watching the color of the plants reaching out to him to say hello.

Other times he sits close, spreads his arms out across the back of the bench and slouches inelegantly with his hips pushed forward and his knees cocked out lazily. Then he’ll squint around at the world with one of those smug little smirks on his face and Castiel will lean into the space under his arm, slot the back of his head into Dean’s shoulder and let the pages of his book flutter away their words.

Dean can sit there silently for hours just soaking up his presence, or he can fidget and pull out his phone and send off texts with rapid clicks of his thumbs against the buttons. Sometimes he’ll feel particularly affectionate and rest his cheek on the top of Castiel’s head while he does it and they’ll wait for the sun to sink behind the science building and the air to grow cold and the pathways around campus to empty. Then they’ll walk home in the dark together, hands shoved into pockets, bumping shoulders and racing one another between the orange pools of streetlamps on the sidewalk.

Maybe they’ll ride around town in the Impala with the windows rolled down and the radio playing, fingers linked on the seat between them. Or they’ll stumble inside and leave a trail of clothes from the front door to their room and spend hours tasting and touching and bringing that place between them home.

Sometimes they’re too tired and Dean will just put on his pajamas and laugh quietly as Castiel slides under the blankets naked and they’ll spend the night on opposite sides of the mattress yet tangled up so inexorably there is no discerning where one stops and the other begins.

There is no middle ground in instances such as this. No He and Me. Just US and that GLOW, that potential and SECURITY they both crave and need.

They live each day like it’s their last because there really is only one day. One person, one HOME and it follows them everywhere around the great big world. It can be here, snoring beside him in bed, or behind the wheel of a big black car, a little dog with too short legs in the back seat, the road beneath them rolling away and the smell of wind in his face. It can be a man with bruises and cuts on his knuckles smelling of smoke and gunpowder with graveyard dirt under his nails and salt in his pockets.

And maybe it can even be a man with messy hair in a sweater and frayed shoes sitting on a bench reading a book with no words. Because it doesn’t matter where Home is found, just that you know you were lost without it. And Castiel knows that, remembers the cold hollow ache of its absence, a yearning for something he couldn’t name, had no idea he missed.

This, the warmth and hunger, the fear and longing and anger and sadness. The laughter and smiles, lingering glances and hesitant touches, the hate and want and LOVE—it sounds strange and maybe it is but he wants it. The heartache and healing, all of it. Tastes of salt on skin and fingertips to scar tissue. The urgency and fleeting unimaginable beauty makes it so worth it.

So, yes. Humanity is often the strangest thing. Sensation, state of mind. But it’s a place too— and he finally feels like he belongs.

 

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End file.
